


poor, sweet, dear, precious fefeta

by gregariousProtagonist, oxfordRoulette



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Dark, Gen, Illustrated, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gregariousProtagonist/pseuds/gregariousProtagonist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordRoulette/pseuds/oxfordRoulette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it’s easiest to smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	poor, sweet, dear, precious fefeta

**Author's Note:**

> gregariousProtagonist wrote the damn thing while oxfordRoulette illustrated and crowned herself the AO3 formatting queen.

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You woke up in the ocean. Not the real ocean, but the ocean prepared just for you when you died. It’s a royal ocean. Filled to the brim with cuttlefish. And large whales to nibble on.

You’ve been swimming for what feels like sweeps. Possibly minutes. Maybe you just got here. All you remember is stepping in to the wrong place at the wrong time and then you were here. And you were alone. Which, was not your favorite until you realized that being dead meant no more listening to prophecies or trying to stay alive or hurt feelings. Being dead meant fish and culling and swimming. You like being dead.

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There is something purrfoundly comforting about being dead. It’s sweet like catnip tea mixed with just the right amount of sugar. Equius doesn’t mind that you drink it here, seeing as you’re dead and all. You’ve convinced him catnip makes you wild like it made Pounce. It doesn’t. That’s just purrtend. You like it here.

You’ve been dead for a few days or a few sweeps or an eternity by now. No time to worry about. Nothing to worry about. Just shipping and sipping.

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And then, you aren’t dead. Or you are you’re just, swimming in nothing. And you feel your flesh drying up, watch it unfurl from your skeleton in dusty tendrils that are pulled up, up, up. The phrase “skinned alive” comes to your mind. But you’re not alive. When the tendrils take your neck you cry out. And then you have no mouth. And then it’s quiet.

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When it happens, you aren’t paying attention. One second you’re arguing about something petty, you think it had to do with Aradia, and the next… The next moment you feel like your body is screaming through your thinkpan. Like you’ve been pulled feet first up into your brain somehow. You scream. You hear Equius scream. And then you hear nothing.

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Your body recreates itself in the worst way. Your fingers come together in long, sharp twists. More like paws than fins. Your memory rebels against this new form and you writhe in pain, pulling against it. Trying to make it stop.

You’re drowning. Or, you’re doing what feels like drowning. Like there is water forcing its way down your protein chute, swirling around in your guts. Clogging up your lungs. But there is no water. And yet, it’s suffocation. Feeling empty but full at once, full of the void in your lungs. You wonder if Equius felt like this.

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When your mouth comes back the shape is wrong. It’s caught in a smile that can’t be possible. Pulled in at the middle, up at the top, like it’s being sewed on. Like it’s a costume. It stings and then burns and then you forget about it because you’re wondering where your legs went.

Your legs are gone, melded together into a purple mass of flesh. They curl down into a point. Not good for swimming, not good for walking, not good for anything. You wonder if Sollux felt this way when he was dying. Then you remember that you can’t be dying.

Then you don’t remember anything.

Your neck is ripping. Stretching out and forming long, jagged cuts. When you feel your flesh tear you expect to see olive stain your clothes. Instead, you see flashes of fuchsia pain behind your eyelids. You cry out then, and you think you hear someone answer. But then, your body is not your own somehow. Lighter than when you were alive, heavier than when you were dead. Somehow, stable and less stable at once.

You’re not drowning anymore. There are gills in the side of your neck.

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You are not alive. You are not alive but you wish you were dead. There is someone else in here who smells like fish and tastes like blood and thinks things when you aren’t thinking. It’s never quiet here.

You’re lost in here, and when you dig for memories you can’t find the right ones. Or you find some but they are morphed. Half of what they were. Maybe a quarter. Maybe they aren’t your memories.

You think you were in love once. With someone loud and self-loathing and you think he loved you back. But sometimes when you remember it makes you cry and you think that’s wrong. You had a moirail once too. You think you took his breath away. You remember tea parties and swimming lessons and being lost in the dark.And a lot of blood.

You tried to say your name once. Force the truest memory from your mouth and spit it out into the world. One syllable after another. You tried to make an N. Then an F. Then your head hurt too much and you couldn’t remember which name was which and you stopped.  
  
  
  
  
  
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She gave you a name. The pink girl who talks too much. She called you “Fefeta.” That must be right because she knows things. When you’re with her you can pretend you don’t remember the screaming noises in your mind. You block out the colors that taste wrong and right in your memory.

You know your name must be right. She knows so much about everything. How she talks about coding and hacking and technology. It makes you feel buoyed somehow, dragged out of the dark corner where you go sometimes in your head. When you can’t stand the thoughts that aren’t yours, but are yours.

She helps you forget that too, sometimes, when she smiles and cares for you. There are brief moments where she is almost like your soul mate. Like she fills a void for half a second, and everything is covered in a dark haze. It cools the burning in your mind. You stay with her because you need that respite.

When you’re with her, she calls you sweet. And you think you must be sweet, because otherwise she wouldn’t say so. So you will be sweet for her. And when she smiles, you smile.

And you wonder why you ever didn’t smile.

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End file.
